One in one hundred thousand
by Sorah
Summary: Teenlock AU / Back in those days, Sherlock was always with some purplish hickey somewhere in his body. He didn't try to hide, he would even expose it. It meant that one of those who would talk about him during day, were fucked by him during night. But now he belonged only to John, and John doesn't leave marks. So what was that bruise on Sherlock's neck? Did the boy ever change?
1. Chapter 1

**Some warnings:**

**1 - English is not my native language.**

**2 - First chapter is the biggest of all. It's about half of the fic.**

**3 - Johnlock. Lots of Johnlock.**

**4 - I use this as a prompt on omegle.**

**5 - Reviews are very welcomed (is this even a warning?)**

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**Chapter 1 - Bruises**

Arms and legs, all over two bodies.

The young John Watson cupped the other boy's face, his strong hands caressing the line of Sherlock's jaws with tenderness and affection, despite the fact that he was pressing the thin body against the wall. Sherlock, a bit taller, moaned when he felt John's lips biting his long neck. His hands pulled the school's uniform shirt from the shorter boy's trousers so he could touch the burning tanned skin of the rubgy captain. His long fingers pressed the hipbones (or hip muscles?) as he felt the bulge against in his leg. With some experience, Sherlock moved his hips in the exact spot, making their arousal rub against each other through the fabric of pants and trousers. John moaned and rushed to unbutton him, shirt and everything else. Soon, Sherlock was completely naked, pressed against a wall, with his pale marble skin gaining a few reddish spots where John's hands pressed and his lips sucked, always slightly.

Sherlock pushed John with him to one of the beds of the dorm, where he pinned the older and stronger boy, holding his hands above his head. He kissed him, playing with his tongue, dancing in his mouth, making him hum and twitch. John opened his eyes when Sherlock stopped the kiss to strip him naked.

John was paying attention to Sherlock's skilled fingers undoing his shirt when he saw a detail with the corner of the eye. He moved his sight to Sherlock's neck, where he saw a purplish bruise.

_Not good_. Though John, getting distracted by it. _He hates to have marks. It makes him remember of his past._

But when did he do that? He never left hickeys on Sherlock before. Not after they started the relationship. He couldn't have done it now, he hadn't sucked that spot. Or had he? Well, certainly not that hard, the bruise was big and John was not even sure he'd be able to do it. Even Sherlock being so pale.

"You're distracted." Said Sherlock, making John blink back to reality. "I have to punish you."

John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock crawling down to his waist. His long fingers drew a soft line from John's chest muscles till his hipbones, where they stopped before the waistband of his pants, the last piece of cloth left. Sherlock palmed his erection through the fabric, moving it so that only the head appeared above the waistband. And without touching the rest, he licked it, his tongue drawing small circles around it, giving a special attention to the slit.

John cocked his head back, pulling the sheets, his legs opening involuntarily. "Sherlock, please." He begged, but for about a minute, Sherlock kept the same movement, and only when John was dropping the precum, he pulled his pants down, grabbing the shaft of his cock.

"You like it, John?"

John was going to nod, but instead he suddenly cocked his head back again, arching his body, when Sherlock swallowed him down. John could feel his cock getting warmer in the younger boy's mouth, rubbing against his inner cheek, being sucked, his tongue on some sensitive veins and spots. The boy's hand stroked the base, that he wasn't able to cover with his mouth. John was being pumped by mouth and hand, and after about three minutes, he felt near the edge.

"Sherlock, stop it, please…"

Sherlock smirked at him and forced him to open his legs a bit more. John didn't offer resistance, spreading his leg open as much as he could. Sherlock raised the boy's hips a little, and John felt a shiver through his body when Sherlock's tongue was caressing and watering his entrance. The feeling was unbelievable good. Sherlock licked him and then blew in the same area, making him moan at the warmth in contrast with the cold of the damp skin being blew.

John moved his hand to stroke himself, so near the edge. But Sherlock held his wrist. "I wanna make you come just like this." He said. And John obeyed, whining a little. He knew Sherlock could do it. He knew Sherlock could do whatever he wanted. And the thought of how he had learned that didn't even cross his mind. He simply arched his body and his mind went a blank state when Sherlock entered his arse with about an inch of his tongue. He moved it inside, making John's cock let a trail of precum in his own belly, begging to be touched. But John still didn't.

Sherlock still licked John, pulling his tongue in and out, until he decided it was time to penetrate him with his finger. He raised his hand to John's mouth, making him suck it. "Lick it right, it's gonna be the only lubrication." He said with a smirk.

And John obeyed, he always obeyed. When Sherlock's fingers were lubricated enough, he circled around John's entrance and then finally forced his way in. John remained still, relaxing, getting used, and moaned when Sherlock moved inside, avoiding his prostate.

"Oh, please, Sherlock, I need to come, please…"

His cock was so hard it was aching. A few strokes would be enough. But Sherlock didn't let him. He kept fucking his ass with one finger, avoiding the spot that he knew so well. His eyes were focused on the action, watching his forefinger disappear inside of John, his muscles clenching around it. "You wanna come, John?" he asked, with an evil smile.

"Yes, please! Please, Sherlock!"

"You'll come…" he said, and moved his finger inside of him, bending it a little. "Now.". And started to stroke his prostate with no mercy. John arched and didn't moan, because no sound came out of his open mouth as he came in long spurts all over his belly, chest and chin. Sherlock only stopped pumping his finger against John's prostate in the last spurt. Then he crawled up, licking the trail of cum that he had done, from his belly to the chin, and with it in his mouth, he kissed John.

At the end of it, John was panting, exhausted, his mouth opened and Sherlock resting his head on his chest.

"You're still hard." Said John, after a few moments recovering. "What do you want me to do?"

Sherlock looked down at his erected cock and thought about it. Fucking John was out of question, the boy was still sensitive after coming. Being fucked either, at least for fifteen minutes. So Sherlock raised himself, kneeling in the bed, and put one leg at each side of John, sitting on his chest, his cock right in his face. "Like this I'll come in your mouth." He said.

John nodded and started pumping the boy's cock. He caressed the taller boy's thighs, grabbing his arse while he sucked the head of his deliciously wet cock. He opened his eyes to look up at Sherlock's expression. He loved the face he did without knowing it. His lips trembling slightly and his eyes so focused on seeing John swallowing him.

And John saw it again. The bruise, or hickey, whatever it was, wasn't exactly on the neck, or he'd have seen before. It was in his collarbones. Purplish, but a bit yellow on the edges. It was old then. But not older than 3 days, the last time they had sex, and John was sure he didn't have the bruise by then.

"What are you looking at?" asked Sherlock, when he noticed John getting distracted again. His hand was raised to the bruise, almost instinctively. So he knew about it.

"Suck me John." He ordered, covering the bruise with his palm.

John got even more confused. A lot of thoughts crossed his mind, but he pushed them away. It was not the time to think, it was time to make Sherlock scream and melt in his mouth. And he did.

Sherlock took about 10 minutes to come straight into John's throat, and John happily swallowed him. The two boys cuddled after that, tired, relaxed, still enjoying the orgasms each one had.

After a while just hugging each other, John caressed Sherlock's neck, sliding his finger till the bruise. Sherlock had his eyes closed, enjoying the caress, so he didn't notice when John stopped on the so said hickey and pressed it slightly. If that was an hematoma, it would hurt. But Sherlock didn't seem to feel anything. So hickey.

John's stomach hurt. He swallowed hard, trying, in vain, to push away any wrong thought. But they were inevitable.

First of all, it is necessary to say that John was Sherlock's boyfriend for about six months, but their first time was a lot before that. The reason was simple: John was one of Sherlock's fuck buddies for 7 months before the relationship started. During that time, John was pretty far from being the only guy Sherlock kept having sex. He didn't even knew how many they were, and he doubted that even the taller boy knew. He had a few names, about four or five, that were more frequent, but beside that, Sherlock would have constant sex with nearly 20 different people each month. He had a fame, a fame that John promised to ignore when they started dating and Sherlock promised that he would be the only guy he'd sleep with from then on.

Of course John doubted in the beginning. It was always some kind of game for Sherlock. Making people fall for him, or simply beg for him. He liked to dominate all sorts of people, even teachers and other grown up men. Mr. Fieldstone had 38 years when Sherlock managed to press his chest against the chemistry lab wall. The biggest 'slut' of the college was not a girl – though the liked to compete with his only female friend, Irene – but a boy.

But it all changed six months ago, when Sherlock decided he didn't need anybody else but John. He pushed away all the others fuck buddies, including Victor, the first of all the others, the biggest responsible for Sherlock's behavior. And John also fell in love with him, of course. Even before. His roommate was his crush for a long time, and John accepted sharing him with half of the school because he thought that 'fuck buddy' was the best he could be to him.

Back in those days, Sherlock was always with some purplish bruise somewhere in his body. He didn't try to hide, he would even expose it. So everybody would know that, even though people talked about him – always bad things -, even though most people hated him, someone had being fucked by him in the night before, and _enjoyed it_. It was a pleasure let them wondering 'who'.

But now there was no wonder who. It was John, it was always John, and John didn't let marks, so people would know that those days were gone. Sherlock had changed and belonged only to him.

Or maybe he hadn't change at all. Maybe some guy had sucked his collarbones during the weekend and let that big purplish hickey.

Maybe.

He had to ask. He needed to ask.

But he didn't.

He regretted the decision during the week, though, when another hickey appeared right below his jaw and people started to ask him if they had broken up. When he denied, the first reaction of nearly the whole college was to wonder _who_ had being the one Sherlock had slept with. Who was the reason for him to cheat on John.

And Sherlock didn't say a word about it, during the whole week. Either did John. He waited. He was going to tell, sooner or later, he couldn't just ignore the fact that he was using a scarf during the summer to hide a damn hickey. And that during sex John was being forced to kiss and lick above those fucking hickeys.

But Sherlock didn't even mention them.

It became too much when Greg came to ask about it.

"Hey, mate… Heard about you and Sherlock."

John was in the library, studying, when Greg sat by his side with a Math book. John sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Heard what?"

"You know. That he cheated on you."

"He didn't cheat on me!"

Of course, John also though Sherlock had done it, but the whole situation was way too weird, and all the proves had led him to believe that yes, Sherlock was fucking someone else.

"Oh… so you broke up?"

"No, we're still together." He frowned, looking back at his own book.

"Sure, mate. So you started marking him?"

John's eyes watered. "No." he answered, frustrated, humiliated.

Greg didn't say anything else. Instead, he tapped John's shoulder, showing his friendship and support, and left John alone again.

That night he was absolutely sure about asking him. It was now or never. It was becoming even ridiculous to ignore the whole situation. People were making fun of him, talking behind his back, and he was not going to take that for a boyfriend who was fucking someone else.

So John went back to their dorm around 8 pm. He opened the door already calling for his roommate, but he shut himself when he saw him packing.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock closed the zipper of the big case. "Home." He answered. "Just for a week."

"And you were going to tell me this when?"

Sherlock looked at his watch. "My mother called me. She wants me to go spend the week with her. She called just now."

"Why would your mother want you to lose a whole week from school just to spend five days with you?" he asked, suspicious, accusatory.

"Because." He answered. "I don't know, she just wants, and I hate this place, I'll take the opportunity."

John clenched his fists, his eyes watered, and he didn't even know if it was from sadness or angriness. "So, you hate this place. You can't wait to leave."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, the only good thing about all of this is you, but you'll be here when I come back, so it's just for a week."

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock." John said, gritting his teeth. He closed the door behind him. "You're leaving because you wanna be away from me."

Sherlock frowned and put the bag on the floor. "This is ridiculous, you're the only person with whom I wanna be."

"You're lying! Ok? Stop this! Just-… Look, I'm not stupid. I'm seeing those marks. I'm seeing those damn hickeys. Just tell me who he is."

Sherlock stared at John with an indifferent expression, holding the bag. For some seconds, he didn't move, he didn't say anything. Then he simply walked towards the door.

"Answer me!"

"You seem to be pretty sure about where these bruises come from. I don't need to explain anything." He said, grabbing the door handle.

"If I'm wrong, tell me the truth!"

He was desperate to hear any version of that story that didn't include Sherlock fucking some random guy.

"These bruises are not hickeys." He said, between his teeth, opening the door.

"What they are, then?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He slammed the door behind him, leaving John alone in the dorm to cry with some privacy. He lay on the bed – and he didn't even remember anymore which one was his – and curled into a ball, sobbing and crying. He should've seen it coming. He should have known. Everybody told him so, everybody knew, so why didn't he believed?

That was on Monday, and on Wednesday, John was still hearing a lot from people all around the school, but perhaps the feeling of missing Sherlock was even worse than the rumors.

That week was not different from a particular one, four months ago, when Sherlock had been away for about the same amount of days, since he went to Spain to spent some holidays there. They were boyfriends for about two months and John missed the boy like if a piece of him was gone. He remembers that they had a terrible fight when he came back. Sherlock accused him of some nonsense things, they nearly broke up, but John managed to convince him otherwise. Sherlock was weird that week, and he was weird now. Maybe he was thinking about breaking up with him and needed a week away to decide if he should or not. Maybe he was with somebody else right now.

So he texted him.

_Where are you? – JW_

The answer took about half an hour. That meant Sherlock was nowhere near the phone

_Home._ – SH

John pursed his lips. Sherlock always had the phone with him, and he always answered him within minutes. So either he was busy or he didn't care answering.

_What are you doing right now? – JW_

_I'm fucking a delicious redhead. – SH_

_Sherlock. – JW_

_Isn't that what you think I'm doing? Don't you think I came home to fuck my lover? – SH_

John frowned at the last text. He sat down in front of the notebook before answering.

_It doesn't matter what I think, I expected you to tell me the truth. –JW_

Another half an hour without an answer. John was finishing a long chemistry essay when the phone made the noise of message alert.

_You don't believe me. – SH_

_It gets hard to believe you when you tell me nothing. - JW_

_I told you they are not hickeys, and that should be enough for you. – SH_

_Why that should be enough? Give me proves. – JW_

_Proves? Go to hell. – SH_

John wanted to throw the phone on the wall after that. His boyfriend had a damn bruise on the neck and he was not allowed to know why? He was not allowed to think that the boy who fucked half of the college only six months ago could have fallen in temptation?

_You're not helping your situation. – JW_

_My situation? Which situation? John, you can believe me and you can believe the others and break up with me. There's no situation. – SH_

_You're doing nothing to convince me otherwise. It's almost like if you wanted me to break up with you. – JW_

_That's hardly something I want. – SH_

_Then tell me what the bruises are! – JW_

_No. – SH_

John put the phone on the desk, by the side of the notebook with an incomplete essay. He rubbed his eyes, rested his head on his hand and looked at the phone screen._ No_.

What was that supposed to mean? If he was not cheating on him, then why he wouldn't tell?

_You don't want me to know because I doubt you? – JW_

_That's one of the reasons. – SH_

_What are the others? – JW_

_You don't need to know. – SH_

_Sherlock, just please… tell me what's going on. Please. – JW_

_John, I need you to know that I love you. You changed me, and I'll be thankful for that as long as I'm alive, and I will love you until the day I die, until my very last breath. I need you to know that. – SH_

John burst into tears. He couldn't even see the phone anymore. He should feel stupid for crying like that, but he knew Sherlock Holmes, the boy who would never attach to anyone. The lonely boy who was never alone. Always with someone, but never feeling something for them. Never caring, never feeling.

But yet, the bruises.

John felt frustrated. He had been humiliated by nearly everyone he knew for that boy.

_Nice words, but I wanna know where the bruises come from. – JW_

He had no answer after that.

And he didn't send another text again either. So he only saw Sherlock again by Monday, when he came back before the first classes, waking John up at 6:30 am, unpacking his stuff.

John blinked a few moments and rubbed his eyes, sleepy. He looked to the taller boy putting clothes back on his drawers like if nothing had happened.

"Hey." Said John, sitting in bed. He yawned and stretched. Sherlock didn't look at him to answer with the same word.

"How was your week?" asked John.

"Marvelous." Said Sherlock, closing one drawer to open another.

John scratched his head, feeling tears coming to his eyes. That wasn't fair. It was far from fair. Damn Sherlock Holmes. He didn't even care proving that they were not hickeys, because he was so damn sure that John was not going to be able to break up with him. Was that a game of power? He wanted to know how much power he had over John? He doubted that he would be strong enough to break up even if he had cheated on him and let it pretty apparent?

"Sherlock." Said John, getting up. Sherlock ignored him, still unpacking, and only hummed to answer. "Look at me. Now." He ordered.

Sherlock frowned and rolled his eyes. He turned on his ankles and looked at John with pursed lips. "Yes?"

"What's his name?"

"His name?"

"Stop lying to me, ok? I just wanna know his name! He's not from school, or I'd know that already. It's not Victor, he would be bragging. Who's him!?"

Sherlock got up and fixed his shirt, calm and protractedly. Then he stood there, looking at John, with those completely indifferent and empty look.

"John, this is the last time I'll say that the bruises were not hickeys. If you insist saying they were, I'll have to break up with you. Was I clear?"

John gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. No. That wasn't clear. That was far from clear. That was an affirmation without any proof, and Sherlock Holmes himself was the one who told him that any affirmation without proof can be declined without proof. Bruises on the neck? Sure, were you hit by a ping-pong ball?

By the way, John noticed that there were no visible bruises any more.

What could they be? Not drugs, no one would inject drugs on the collarbones or the neck. Would? John didn't understand much about it, but when he met Sherlock, the boy was still addicted, and he remembered that he was quite good at using the syringe. He never let more than a small and barely visible little point on his pale skin. Eventually, on a specially bad day, he used drugs while already high, and a bruise formed on the injected area, but that was past. Right?

"Drugs." Said John.

"No." Answered Sherlock, frowning. "John, I don't do drugs in…"

"Seven months. I know."

_Stop using drugs._ That was the only condition John had imposed to start a relationship. He never felt more proud when he saw the boy flushing away everything he had.

"Is someone hitting you?"

"No. Nobody is touching me. Oh, and by the way, I told my parents about us."

John needed a time to understand those words. Of course the whole school knew about them, it was no a secret. But not their parents.

John was not sure why. Sherlock's mother was adorable, and his father was a serious man, but a good man. John had been in his house – or should he call it a mansion? – a couple of times, always introduced as a friend, though he was quite sure that Mycroft, his brother, knew the truth. There was no special reason to hide from them, but they never really talked about telling their parents, so John didn't know why Sherlock decided to tell them now.

"Well, how did they react?"

"My mother is happier than never and my father is proud." He answered, turning away to put the last clothes on the top drawer. "So no, before you ask, my father is not beating me for being gay."

"They didn't know?" asked John. Sherlock hadn't turned gay for him. No, he was gay ever since he knew the boy. The idea of Sherlock with a girl was even ridiculous. Irene had tried and Molly was still in love with him, and he declined both of them with a blink of an eye.

"It was not something we talked about at home, but they certainly assumed so."

It made sense. When John met the other Holmes he learned a lot about them.

First, they didn't use bad language. Bad words were simply not in their vocabulary. They would talk in the most aristocratic way possible, always calmly and passible, with the best diction John had ever heard. He couldn't even imagine one of them being angry and arguing. Sherlock's father beating him? Hard to picture.

So they were pretty nice, but at the same time, they were cold as possible. They didn't talk much, if they could avoid. They were all diplomatic, talking only the necessary and choosing the right words, so they wouldn't need to say it twice. Even Sherlock changed when he was at home. His whole posture and vocabulary changed. He would go from the 'slut boy' who fucked the Chemistry teacher in the lab, to a nice and polite teenager, just by crossing the door of his house.

"Sherlock… is something happening to you? Something I should be worried about?"

He looked away. For about one second. One second that meant everything. He was looking on John's eyes all the time while denying that those were hickeys, but now he looked away.

"This conversation is over." He said, tossing his empty bag on the wardrobe.

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**Hey, I just met you and this is crazy, but here's my fic, so leave a review maybe.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Again, apologies for bad grammar or lack of vocabulary. **

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**Chapter 2 - Until the day I die**

Things were going great, really. Sherlock had no bruises anymore, and people stopped talking, eventually. John didn't ask again either, and everything was back to normal, with daily sex and classes together. John even asked if Sherlock wanted him to talk to his parents about them, and received a 'whatever' as an answer. So he didn't bother actually telling. He didn't know how they would react. He was sure they were not homophobic or something. His sister was assumed lesbian, and they were ok with that. But he was the 'man on the house', or so would be someday, therefore being hard to predict his father's reaction. Maybe he would think that it as a trick of the destiny that his daughter would like girls and his son would like boys.

Well, John didn't like boys. He liked Sherlock. He had gone gay for the guy.

Two weeks after that, however, John was sleeping cuddled with Sherlock, like always, both naked, when he woke up after a nightmare.

Sherlock was leaving. On the dream, John would thank him for everything they had been; they would kiss, hug and cry. And then Sherlock would turn away and leave, and John could do nothing about but scream.

He woke up sweating, gasping. Then he looked to Sherlock, a bit desperate to see that the guy was there, right beside him, and not leaving. No, he was sleeping like a baby, cute and beautiful as always. John admired his body for a few seconds, happy, relieved. He caressed his arm, his shoulder, his chest, delicately. He loved him, every inch of him. He was lost in the thoughts of how much he loved that boy when he saw it.

On the ribs, next to where his arm as lying, a small spot where the skin was a little bit darker. He had to look really close to be sure. It was not something he'd notice during sex or something. He looked at Sherlock, to check if he was really sleeping – and he was, he would always sleep like a stone after sex – and stroke the spot. He looked at his finger and noticed some kind of ink on it. He licked another finger and stroke the place again. Now the ink – probably some women make up – was leaving, showing a big bruise.

That _thing_ was not a hickey.

Nobody would be able to do such a thing. How didn't that hurt? How didn't he wake up while he stroke the spot?

John's heart began to beat faster in his chest, and he had the impression that it was about to jump out of his body through his throat. He uncovered Sherlock without making a noise and started looking for more of those spots.

And he found. Nine of them.

Already crying in desperation, John shook Sherlock until he was awake.

"Sherlock, tell me now!" he asked, sobbing. "Please, tell me! Who's beating you!?"

Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to understand what was happening when he noticed the uncovered bruise in his ribs.

"Nobody, John." He answered, his voice embargoed by sleep.

"You're lying! Tell me, please, I can help!"

"You can't help." Said Sherlock, sitting in bed. "Nobody can."

John's chest ached. "Then someone _is_ beating you."

"No. Nobody is beating me, John. Nobody beat me after I started dating you, everybody is afraid of the rugby captain."

"Then what are these bruises!?"

Sherlock bend his knees, hugging his legs against his chest, and lowered his head, resting them on his knees, hiding his face. When he raised again, his eyes were watered and red.

"Remember I said I was going to love you until the day I die?"

John felt his heart in his throat.

"Yes." He answered.

"I'm afraid that might be a really short time."

John felt the whole world spinning around him, like if for a moment, he had notion that the Earth was rotating, and he simply stopped on the same spot. His brain went blank and his heart ached. A sudden cold, followed by his vision getting darker, made John fall against the headboard. If he was standing, he'd probably had hit the floor hard enough to hurt.

"What… what do you mean?"

"Exactly what you understood. I'm dying, John."

John held his breath, and he was not even sure for how long.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"You are not dying, you can't, you…"

"I can. Actually, the doctor said I'm doing quite well at dying."

John wasn't even crying. He was shocked, he was feeling like being shot out of the blue. The idea was not being well accepted by is brain, so he didn't realize that it was true. No, he was dreaming, sure. Another nightmare. He was going to wake up at any moment now.

"You seem fine to me." He whispered.

"The rupture of small veins, causing these bruises, are symptoms, John. Of leukemia."

_Leukemia. Cancer._

"But… but this is treatable. You can be cured. You're not dying."

Sherlock looked away. His eyes were shining from the tears being kept there. His lips trembled and he opened his mouth slightly for a while before speaking again.

"I had 12% chances of surviving doing the chemo." He explained. "And I didn't do."

"What? Wh-why? Why didn't you do the chemo?"

"The chemotherapy is a very aggressive treatment that involves killing the cancerous cells. But the chemo doesn't know which cell is cancerous and which is not, so it also kills healthy cells." He paused for a moment to take a deep breath. "You know those skin and bone patients on hospital beds? Bald and breathing with machines and being fed by injection of nutrients because their stomach can't hold food? That's not the cancer, John, that's the chemo. I would need a lot of sessions, and it could kill me faster than the cancer itself, in a hospital bed, unable to enjoy my last days of life. And I _would_ die, because 12% of chance is _nothing_." He shook his head. The first tear rolled. "No. I wanna die with some dignity."

"There no dignity in dying, Sherlock!" he yelled. "There has to be another way… you can't die…"

The thought was sinking in John's brain. Losing Sherlock forever. Watching him dying slowly, getting a little weaker every week. Slipping through his fingers.

"The only other way was finding a compatible marrow donor." Said Sherlock, biting his lower lip. "But nobody in my family is compatible." He swallowed and looked at John with watered eyes. "Remember that week, about 4 months ago, when I said I was going to spend holidays in Spain with my family?" John nodded. "I was diagnosed that week. My whole family spent that week doing compatibility testes. None of them is compatible."

John couldn't even breathe now. That was one week before they had the most horrible fight of their relationship so far. The only one time they talked about breaking up – at least before those bruises. Sherlock had accused him of… well, he didn't even remember. It was so ridiculous and nonsense that his brain didn't keep the information.

"You talked about breaking up after that."

"Yes. I wanted to make you hate me so you wouldn't suffer when I die."

John melted in tears.

"Yo-you… you wan-wanted to…" he gasped, choking. "You've known this for 4 months… Why didn't you… why did you…"

"Hid it from you?" he asked, when John couldn't even finish a whole sentence. "Because I didn't want someone mourning by my side. I wanted to live my last months like if nothing was happening, by your side, with you happy, not acting like I could break at any touch."

John clenched his fists. "Anyone could be a compatible marrow donor." Said John, with his tears streaming down his face like an intermittent river.

"Yes, and that's why my family spent the last 4 months looking for one, in the whole world, without any success. Two weeks ago my mom said she missed me and wanted me to spend some time with her."

John bit his lip so hard it bled. Sherlock was really spending some time with his mother, and he had texted him in the middle of the week to accuse him of cheating on him.

"How long?" asked John. "How much time do you have?"

"I did some more tests that week too, because of the bruises appearing. I don't know the results, I didn't ask. My mom knows. But the first test, four months ago, indicated that I had about 50% chances of living more than a year and 10% chances more than 15 months. I think the 0% was above 17 months and the 100% was 8 months"

"That means that today you have…"

"Between about 5 and 12 months. Probably 8 or so. But it could be different according to the last test."

"And you didn't ask about them."

"Not interested."

John rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe the tears away, but he was far from succeeding. He remained with them closed, sobbing, trying to breath, feeling his chest breaking into one million pieces. Sherlock was 17 years old. And he was dying. Fast.

Sherlock was the love of his life. He was 19 years old and he knew it. Sherlock was his soulmate. Sherlock was everything. And he was leaving. And he could do nothing but scream and cry.

At some point between closing his eyes to cry and hiding his face on his hands, he felt arms involving him and his head being caressed. He didn't open his eyes, he just leaned against Sherlock's shoulder, damping his skin, feeling each inch of his interior aching and breaking.

"I could be compatible." He whined hugging Sherlock as strong as he could, like if that could hold him into that life.

"John, the chances are…"

"Shut up and let me do the test!" he nearly screamed.

"John, the chances that Mycroft would be compatible were 25%. And he isn't. The chances that someone who's not related to me could be compatible are one in one hundred thousand."

"I'll take the damn test!"

Sherlock sighed and nodded. "Promise me you won't be sad if you're not compatible."

John sobbed and shrugged. "I wanna try. Let me try."

And John did.

* * *

**Sorry for angst as well.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - Mismatching **

Sherlock didn't tell his mother that John was going to sleep in his house during weekend because they had gone to the hospital so John could take a compatibility test. He didn't want her thinking '_what if'._ He knew the chances were so close to zero that John was taking the test just to show his support. And she was suffering enough.

But it was nice anyway, since his parents could see John as their son's boyfriend, and not as a friend, like the last time he was there. They drank tea together, not needing to hide their kisses. Actually, Mrs. Susan Holmes was quite happy about John's presence, and John felt himself very welcomed to that family. Even Mycroft was less annoying than usual, and apparently that would irritate Sherlock even more: he knew that his brother was only being nice because he was going to die soon.

Sherlock's death was like a cold wind dancing around that house. Nobody could see it, but everybody could feel it in their skin and bones, causing shivers and discomfort. It was not something that anyone would notice by visiting the Holmes family, but knowing them and knowing about Sherlock's disease was enough to realize that behind their aristocratic faces there was a lament and a mourning that could never be silenced.

Sherlock's mother was _screaming_ inside. It was so barely noticeable that was even distressful, painful to watch. She was putting her soul on the effort of keeping herself from crying. _All the time_. For not even one second she showed sign of tears, but she was melting inside, like a time bomb.

She had gained a small tremor on her hands that made her drop a little bit of the sugar on the way from the pot to her tea. Also, differently from the last time John had seen her, she would enjoy every opportunity to touch Sherlock. Tapping his shoulder when calling his attention, hugging him when he arrived home, touching his arm to ask if he wanted more sugar, kissing him goodnight.

Sherlock's father was more a quiet type. He worked in a great position for a big company of research in the area of Biotechnology, and would spend the whole day closed in his office, typing essays and papers for publication, when he was not closed in his particular lab, working alone, or in the company lab.

Well, now he was in the living room, on the desktop computer there, typing. But there.

He even stopped to eat dinner with the whole family, and John had never seen him eating with the others. He would still talk only the necessary to the others, but with Sherlock he even asked about his last tests. He asked how he was doing and asked about some book he had read.

And he talked to John. For the first time, Mr. Frederic Holmes talked to John. He tapped his shoulder gently, giving him a little, barely noticeable smile. "You take care of my boy." He said.

John nodded and looked at Sherlock in that moment. He was with his mother in the kitchen, helping her with the dishes.

"I will, sir."

The result of the compatibility test was going to come out on the next day, and John spent that night sleeping with Sherlock in his bed. They always complained about sleeping on a single bed in the dorms of the college, but they realized, on Sherlock's double bed, that even there, they would occupy only the space of a single bed, sleeping so close to each other that most part of the mattress was available.

By the morning, Sherlock and John sat to have breakfast with the rest of the family. John was anxious about the results, so he wanted to leave fast. But Sherlock took a long time to finish eating. The whole family did. They enjoyed being there, together. John could bet that Susan Holmes had asked Sherlock to quit studying, and the boy refused.

_"I hate this place, the only good thing about this is you_"

John remembered Sherlock's words and tears appeared in his eye, but he was not going to cry by the table, while the family was enjoying the company of each other. Sherlock did want to leave the school, but that would mean he would be away from John.

And that was when John realized his responsibility in all that was happening.

John was not just the boyfriend of a dying boy.

He was his connection to the happiness. The way he found to make through it. That was why he didn't want John to know. He wanted someone with whom he could pretend that nothing was happening, once that in his house everything was so sad and depressive.

John represented his chance to be happy in his last days, and to a dying boy, that was pretty much _everything_ he could still dream about.

John was _everything_ to Sherlock Holmes.

So when the driver took them to the hospital to get the results, John was clenching his fists, hoping that for a miracle, just maybe, he would be his one in one hundred thousand.

The nurse already new Sherlock, after so many times she had to give him a bad new. When they entered the room, she saw them from a far and already got the paper that she knew they were looking for.

It was inside an envelope. And John was the one who received it. Sherlock took a deep breath. Of course he wanted John to be compatible, of course that was what he wanted most right now, and that a tiny little part of him still believed that John could be really his soulmate, the one who was going to save him from dying, the one he was going to marry and live with until they would get old and die at the proper time, holding their wrinkled hands. They should have all the time in the world.

John opened the envelope, but didn't remove the paper from there. He was trembling, his soul was cracking. He handed it to Sherlock before he could see the result.

"You see it. And tell me."

Sherlock pursed his lips and obeyed. With his long thing fingers, he got the paper that he knew so well. His eyes flew around the medical terms straight to the answer.

And when he saw, he fell on the floor, crying.

_The analyzed sample of HLA testing presents 0% of mismatching._

* * *

Sherlock's mother was reading a book on an armchair. Sherlock's father was typing on his computer. Mycroft was reading the newspaper. So the house was drowning in silence. Everything that could be heard was the sound of Frederic Holmes typing fast and eventually Mycroft changing the page of the newspaper.

When Sherlock and John got in, running and talking very loud, the whole family turned their heads, looking for the source of the noise.

Sherlock was waving the paper in the air. He jumped over the couch to get to where his mother was. John had lots of tears in his face, but he was smiling. Actually, he didn't even know if he could call that feeling happiness. It was more like a nirvana. He had never been happier in his life.

One in one hundred thousand.

"Mom!" he yelled. "Father, Mycroft, everyone!".

Susan Holmes put the book on the center table and got up to look at whatever Sherlock was holding and waving so happily. When she saw the logo of the hospital, she instantly took the paper from his hands.

It took about 5 seconds for her to localize the final answer. Meanwhile, Frederick and Mycroft Holmes were standing in the middle of the way, waiting for Susan to say something.

But she didn't say anything, she simply exploded. The time bomb Susan Holmes exploded in tears, and she hugged Sherlock like if that was going to be the last day of their lives.

John was sure that it was from happiness, and Sherlock was not with his face towards the boy, so he didn't see the change of his expression when he realized that Susan's tears were not from happiness, but sadness. The biggest sadness she had ever felt in his life.

First Mycroft, and then Frederic walked to them, getting the paper for a brief reading before they would start crying and hugging Sherlock. Even his father. Even the ice cold man cried.

For a brief moment, John thought about the possibility of their crying be for sadness, but it couldn't be. He was compatible, he was going to donate his marrow and Sherlock would live, so they couldn't be crying for sadness, right?

John thought about it again when he saw Sherlock's knees failing and he felt on the floor, slipping through his parents and brother's arms. What was happening here?

Mycroft was the first to leave the group and walk to John. He touched his shoulder and pressed it slightly.

"Thank you, John. Would you please wait for my brother in his room? We wanna talk to him."

John swallowed and nodded, feeling a bit dizzy. He had to prop on the wall to walk upstairs. He left the family crying, trying to understand what was that feeling telling him that those tears were not from happiness.

Sherlock only went upstairs about 10 minutes later. He had washed his face and was forcing a smile. He closed the door behind him and sat with John in the bed.

"You're my one in one hundred thousand, John." He said, holding his hand. "Do you understand how good this is?"

"Yes," John said, pressing Sherlock's hand. "it means you're gonna live. When can we make the transplant?"

Sherlock pursed his lip and his eyes watered again. He was clearly going to say something really bad and was trying to find the guts to do it. He clearly didn't succeed, since forced another smile.

"Within 2 months." He answered. "You need preparation and me too."

"Only two months?" John asked, confused. "Are you sure?"

"That's what the doctor said." He shrugged, smiling. "Aren't you happy?"

"Yes… yes, I'm happy" he said, a little suspicious. "What about your parents?"

"Oh, they are happy too. They were crying of happiness."

John found that extremely hard to believe. But it was a good thing to have faith on, so he did.

* * *

**Only one more chapter. Reviews are appreciated. I started this as a non-angst fic and no trigger warning, and I must say, I feel guilty about it. Some people don't like angst, and in my opinion, nothing hurts more than angst Sherlock. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Yep, sorry about this.**

**This whole fic was written in one day. Yep.**

**Thank you for reading, this is the last chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter **

After about one month, though , Sherlock told John he was leaving the school.

"It's just so I can get ready for the transplant. After it, I'll be back." He said.

So John was constantly on the Holmes' mansion. The driver would get him at the school after classes and take him back by the morning. And it was extremely weird, because now they seemed even sadder than before. Shouldn't they be happy? Shouldn't they be acting normal? Well, maybe John didn't know that family so well.

But a lot of things were weird. First, Sherlock was weaker. And he understands that, without the transplant, he would get weaker until it was done. But he was gasping just to go up and downstairs. After 20 days, he asked John to wait until after the transplant for them to have sex again, since he wasn't being able to keep himself conscious during physical effort.

After 50 days, however, John had to help him taking shower.

That night, Sherlock apologized as they lay on the bed. He was ashamed of his dependence and thankful for having John. He didn't want his mother or father to help him with that.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock, I'll help you with anything." Said John, lying on his bed, turned to him.

Sherlock was thinner, paler. His collarbones were always a lot apparent, but now he could even count a few ribs on his chest. And the bruises were more frequent than ever.

"Thank you, John. You're unbelievable."

"Oh, come on, anybody would do that!"

Sherlock gave him a soft smile and caressed his face. His pupils were lot dilated in his green deep eyes. "No, John. Only you would ignore my past and everything people were talking about me to be my boyfriend, even being straight before that. Only you would know how to make me happy during this illness, and only you would be able to love a freak like me."

John's eyes watered. "You talk like if it was such a sacrifice." He kissed the hand caressing his face. "And you are not a freak. You're the best man… and the best human being that I've ever known. It's not a sacrifice to be by your side, it's… the best thing I ever did, and I'm happy that I'll be able to be with you forever. Until the day I die."

Sherlock closed his eyes as a tear rolled. "Yes. It's…uh…" he bit his lip, swallowed and opened his eyes again. They were red and bursting into tears. "John, would you… marry me?"

John felt his heart beating extremely fast and his soul getting warmer. "Of course, Sherlock. Of course I'll marry you. Someday we'll get married, we'll adopt a child, and we'll live together, till we get old and grumpy."

Sherlock clenched his fists and closed his eyes once more, breathing heavily. The tears didn't seem to care if his eyes were closed. They were streaming down his face to the pillow like a furious river. "Yes. But I wanna marry you. _Now_".

"Now? What do you mean, _now?_"

"This week." He answered, gasping. He hugged John strong as he could, his hands trembling, his whole body shaking. "We'll get married this week."

"Sherlock…" John's eyes were beginning to water as he began to comprehend the truth. His chest ached again and he hugged him back just as firmly. "Why… why don't we wait until after the transplant?"

Sherlock choked with his tears. "Because… I can't wait…"

"Why can't you wait, Sherlock? You'll be fine, you will-… _we will_ grow old together, and live a long happy life… won't we?"

Sherlock sobbed. He gritted his teeth and tried to talk, but he took about three minutes before a comprehensible word would come out. "You will." He answered, and coughed as his voice failed. "John… I don't wanna be alone…", he gasped, in a desperate voice.

"You're not alone, Sherlock, I'm here!" he said, already drowning in his own tears.

"I'm gonna… die alone." He whispered, and hid his face on John's shoulder, damping his pyjama.

John's hands began to shake violently. "You won't die alone, Sherlock, you…"

"It's too late, John." He whined. "It's… too late…"

"It's not, within 10 days we'll to the transplant, we-"

"It's too late." He repeated. "It was too late for me. The transplant can't save me." He confessed, pressing John's hands on his one.

That moment, John's heart stopped for some seconds. The supernova that had formed in his chest when he knew they were compatible was consumed by a new dark hole.

His mouth opened, his throat seemed to be twisted and pressed until he was suffocating. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't talk, and his chest was a deep confusion of bitterness, sadness and agony.

John wished to be dead.

He wished that he had a sudden illness that would kill him right now, with a blink of an eye. Just so he could stop feeling _anything._

"How… how long do we…"

"At any day now."

_Any day._

Tomorrow? The day after?

_Tonight?_

"You are my one in one hundred thousand, John, you're my everything, and the best thing I ever had." Sherlock said. "Don't feel bad for me, because not many 80 years old men can say they were happy as me."

"No… no, no, no, Sherlock…" his voice died in his throat. "We were supposed to be together, we were supposed to have kids and…"

"You will. Just not with me." He said, with a soft and sad smile.

John couldn't answer anymore. Instead, he simply hugged him strong as he could, close as possible.

Sherlock Holmes was in an unstoppable trip away from this world, away from John, away from his mother, father and brother. He was afraid of dying alone, and he was leaving behind people afraid of living alone. He was leaving behind John Watson, the man who, in another life, maybe, would be his best friend, his lover, his husband, not for just a couple years, but for a lifetime. Because John Watson was his one in one hundred thousand. That one person who changes you, and makes you wanna change into a better human being. The one like no other, who seems to understand you better than anybody else, better than yourself. The only one person in the world that worth living and dying for, abandoning everything you thought you cared about. John Watson was that person for Sherlock, and Sherlock was that person to John. They were pieces of one single heart, and for some reason, the piece representing Sherlock was cracked and ill. And the piece representing John was breaking into a million pieces.

John Watson would never be complete again. He would live the rest of his life alone, but Sherlock was not dying alone.

_No._

John Watson was there, inside of him, dying with him.

And after just one more week, after a brief ceremony of marriage, John Watson felt Sherlock's hand loosening from his grip as he whispered the last 'thank you'. And the eyes, the green eyes of the 17 years old boy, shining from the tears, those beautiful eyes where John found love, suddenly stopped shining, stopped seeing, stopped loving. Because Sherlock Holmes would love John Watson until the day he died, until his very last breath. But John Watson still loved Sherlock Holmes for another lifetime, and in the life after that, until he would find him again, his one in one hundred thousand, his soulmate.

His Sherlock.


End file.
